MARGARET’S POV
The dial tone droned on.
Steady. Impersonal. Unforgiving.
I stared at the dark screen of my phone, my fingers still curled around it as though if I held on long enough, the call might resume on its own.
As though Seraphina might sigh, call my name the way she used to when she was small, and give me one more chance to find the right words.
The sound finally cut off.
The silence that followed was heavier, more suffocating than the dial tone itself.
I lowered the phone slowly, my hand trembling despite years of discipline and posturing that should have taught my body better.
For a long moment, I simply stood there in my room, staring at nothing, my reflection faintly visible in the glass wall overlooking the moonlit garden.
I had done it again—pushed Sera away.
The realization struck with dull, familiar pain, like pressing on a bruise you believed no longer existed, only to find it still tender beneath the surface.
I closed my eyes.
